


HD 'The Perils of Potter'

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: +pregnant harry, -fic post, Genre: PWP, M/M, Rating: NC-17 - Freeform, fest: mpreg fest 2013, genre: fluff, genre: humour, length:1000+
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Fuck or Die'. Intrepid explorers Potter and Malfoy stumble across an ancient altar in the jungle, and fall prey to the whimsy of Stone Age Mirror Magic. What that there pert, perky, pointed Prompt commands, then. Except not the ‘dying’ bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	HD 'The Perils of Potter'

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to the lovely H/D LJ Mpreg Fest Mods and to my beautiful Betas. I am incredibly grateful, darlings. And to the Prompter, who hopefully will accept this ritual sacrifice and be duly satisfied therein.

**Title:** The Perils of Potter  
 **Author/Artist:** tigersilver  
 **Prompt:** ‘Fuck or die’  
 **Word Count:** 8,000  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Contains:** Gratuitous use of the word ‘fuck’. And the word ‘die’.* Only they don't die and there's a consequence. *  
 **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
 **Epilogue compliant?:** No, dear. Not.  
 **Who is pregnant? Harry:** Intrepid explorers Potter and Malfoy stumble across an ancient altar in the jungle, and fall prey to the whimsy of Stone Age Mirror Magic.*  
 **Notes:** With thanks to the lovely Mods and to my beautiful Betas. I am incredibly grateful, darlings. And to the Prompter, who hopefully will accept this ritual sacrifice and be duly satisfied therein.  
 **Summary:** What that there pert, perky, pointed Prompt above commands, then. Except not the ‘dying’ bit.

  
**In the Middle of July and the Midst of The Jungle:**

Oh, it’s all fun and games until—

**BOOM!**

“Potter! Potter, get behind me, for Merlin’s sake! _Potter_.”

“Oy, wait, what? Malfoy, no!”

“Just do it, Potter—can’t you see it? Safety first! Fuck only knows what _that_ is!”

 _That_ was a giant round beaten metal disc and it was rising from the stone floor with a gut-wrenching, tooth-rattling rumble; shook the whole room like a jelly. And right before it—literally in front of this remnant of an ancient magical population—came along another Stone Age artefact, also rising: a rectangular wedge of mostly flat, granite carven surface balanced upon a massive pedestal. Up and up they both went, the second looking for all the world like a bloody altar, at least to Draco Malfoy’s practised eye.

“Potter, are you all right? Stay back, Potter!”

Yes, exactly like a bloody altar. Draco _knew_ altars; damn these ancient cultures and their fixation on rituals. Fertility and fecundity rituals in particular, the wretches.

Really, all fun and games in the world it had been, this expedition, despite the tropical insects the size of hippogriffs and the dank darkness of the cavern they’d found themselves in most recently, he and Potter. Right up to the moment the floors and ceiling and even the curving walls had begun to tremble ominously, rock dust sifting down up their two behatted heads, and these weird snaky tropical vines began to sprout up and out and all about, grasping furiously at hiking boots and flailing wrists. Specifically Draco’s wrists, as he manfully struggled to keep Potter tucked behind his back and safe away from all the antique kerfuffle happening right before their dust-filled noses.

Potter was an idiot, of course. He didn’t cooperate in the slightest.

“Mind the vines, Potter!”

Hexing at freaky undergrowth furiously, Draco reached round again and shoved his fellow Wizard as close behind his back as he could manage one-armed, and hissed over his shoulder at him, the silly heedless wanker. For all his Wizardly senses were shrieking ‘Danger, danger, Will Robinson!’ and Potter seemed to be not paying the slightest attention. He’d no idea who this bloke Will Robinson really was, but then he’d heard it said before on the wireless and it had struck him as something to shout in ominous situations like this one.

“Keep a sharp eye out,” he admonished harshly instead of shouting out ‘Danger, danger, Harry Potter’, even though he was sorely tempted. “And keep down low. I’ve no idea what’s on, but it sure as bloody fuck doesn’t look good!”

“Oh, but brilliant!” Potter gasped, peeping round Draco’s twisting torso despite him, and edging forward. “Malfoy. Malfoy—that’s it! That’s what we’ve been hoping to find all along, I swear it is!”

“Yeah?” Draco barked. “Super,” he deadpanned, his sweaty fingers falling away as the man behind him ducked and twisted. “Potter, that’s wonderful, I’m sure, but still? Cavern’s coming down round our ears, what?”

“No, no. Come on, we have to examine it up close, Malfoy! What are you waiting for?”

“Oh, no, you don’t—I said **no**!” Draco couldn’t prevent the despairing howl escaping him, but he darted forward after Potter anyway, the prat having given him the slip. “ _No_. Moron! Come away from that thing. Don’t you dare climb up there! Get yourself down immediately! We don’t know what it does, Potter. Potter! Are you _mental_?”

“No! I have to see, Malfoy,” Potter flung back at him, scrambling up on the platform and staring entranced at the enormous round metal plate. He gathered himself up from hands and knees and lurched toward it. “I have to see it for myself, see if it’s as dangerous as the other one was, all right? We’ve come such a long way…a long, long way….so very far. Thought it was only another legend, really I did, but…you said, and then hmm. Hmm?”

“What?” Draco irritably flicked his wand to ward off the clingy vegetation as Potter’s voice trailed off. Apparently, Potter was dumbstruck by the primitive beauty of the disc. “ _What_ did I say, Potter?”

It was brilliant—literally, Draco had to admit. Picking up all the meager light in the cave from their magical floating torches, it shone dark and lustrous as a pool of souring blood, a coppery hue sparked with fleeting diamond lights. And there on the brazen surface, faint as they were and as far from it as he was, Draco could make out the familiar lines of their reflections as he huffed out dusty cavern air from his offended nose and got on with the arduous hustle to catch up to Potter.

“Potter, I know for a fact I never said to hurl yourself headlong.”

“Malfoy?” he heard faintly, from a distance. “Malfoy, this thing’s got a message inscribed, just like Erised did. At least, I think that’s what those squiggles are. Come see, will you?”

Draco could indeed see, and the platform wasn’t so large or so high that he couldn’t locate Potter, up to mischief as usual. But he was not near enough to prevent Potter’s infernal meddling, of course. Potter was standing right before the massive round metal object and there was still the majority of raised platform’s surface between them, so some fifteen or twenty feet in distance. And the plinth hadn’t ceased its seasick-inducing rock-and-roll motion, not one iota, though it was a least less noisy about it.

“Thanks much, but I’m fine where I am,” he snapped, at last succeeding in subduing the pesky plant growth. “Well back from any possible danger, Potter, as you should be too, idiot.”

“Here it is, right here, Malfoy. Hmm...”

“Maleficent mooncalves, Potter,” Draco snarled, highly unimpressed by all this hideous lack of caution, but impelled again in the move forward by Potter’s unrelenting curiosity. He halted a few steps off Potter’s hunched-over shoulders and jabbed out an accusing forefinger at the miscreant. “Recall! The first rule of any decently organized research exploration is that you don’t fucking touch! Do not fucking TOUCH. Can’t you even remember that one simple tenet, puddinghead? Come away from that thing, will you?”

“But, Malfoy,” Potter breathed, a hand extended, and the hushed protest was nearly obliterated as a final sighing tumble of rock dust hit the cavern’s floor. “Malfoy, this is _it_ , what we’ve been looking for, all this while. Of course I’m touching it—why not?”

Draco closed his eyes for a scant second, mindful of the dirty sweat trickling down his forehead from under the brim of his pith helmet, and raised a thumb and forefinger to gently grasp at his sinuses. The wrinkle forming right above them, actually, but same difference: his head still ached. Correction. It ached _more_.

“I could touch the other one, Erised,” Potter pointed out. “That’s not how a magical mirror’s dangerous, Malfoy, you know that. It’s when you stare into them for too long.”

“Because, Potter—and I don’t know how many times I have to say this to you until you actually listen to me— _because_ , Potter, this is not a pleasant stroll in the park we are engaged in.” Draco was forced to project his voice with a bit of a Sonorous; the renewal of the creeping advance of the strange vines up the cracked masonry and straight towards them was just so inconveniently loud. “This is scientific, is what, our mission, and fraught with peril, due to our location.” He flung a hand out, in the event Potter had managed to not take in the peril. “As such, it is to be conducted properly and it is for strictly research purposes only, and the very first thing one does when one is in midst of a well-planned out foray into the unknown, Potter, is to **Not**. Touch. The. Fucking. _Artefacts_. Keep your damn paws off the magical artifacts, Potter—you have no bleeding idea what they’ll do to you!”

“Do?” Potter blinked stupidly; at least Draco surmised he did; he’d only the wavy reflection in the disc to go by. “What might it do?” Naturally he kept right on with his handsy action, the loon. “That’s my question, right there, Malfoy. What does this one do, if it’s even a Mirror?”

“Take it from me, you great git, you don’t want to know,” Draco bit out forcefully. “Don’t. Touch!”

Pressure as applied to the sinus not providing any real relief, he scowled blackly. No help for it, then.

“Touch…? Hmm…but.”

Potter’s voice was curiously soft, almost drowsy and dreaming. Draco should have known what it meant. What it meant, naturally, was that once again he would find himself with an immense migraine headache labeled ‘Potter’, and then likely immediately after find them both in a great stonking lot of blistering hot water. It had happened in Cancun and Costa Rico; it would no doubt happen again.

“It’s really rather fantastic, is all. Finding one here, I mean.”

“Bother.” Draco sighed. “Oh, bugger me,” he huffed, clambering over a curious hump of curved carved stone on the nearest end of the platform. It somehow managed to scrape at his shins in passing; he noted it rather curiously resembled a pillow, plumped on the surface of a huge stone bed. Very strange, these ancient artisans, what they got up to. “Ow! The things I do for you, Potter. Pfft!”

“Eh? But what could _it_ do, Malfoy?” Potter asked of him, without looking back, ignoring Draco’s complaint entirely in favour of his latest obsession. “It’s—because I really do believe it is a mirror. An incredibly old mirror, exactly the one the legend spoke of. Certainly seems to be one, right? Round, shiny...reflective, all that. But why ever here, underground. Buried away from the sun? Why would they stick it in here, of all places? Shouldn’t it have been up in the temple?”

“Mental, I say.”

Draco grumbled, burying his face in his grubby palm so as to be spared from the sight of Potter blithely running his silly hands all over the strangely oily surface of the reflective disc and then ‘round its beaten frame. It was half a head taller than he in height and twice as wide as the two of them together: absolutely huge, really. Nearly all of the cavern could be glimpsed upon its surface—reversed, of course, but no matter.

“You are absolutely mental. I have absolutely no clue why it’s here and really, Potter? I couldn’t give a sliced shrivelfig, either. It’s enough that it’s old and it’s probably incredibly powerful, which is to say dangerous as bloody all bollocks, and there _you_ are, caressing it all over, like the mental midget you are! That’s not a fucking Kneazle kitty, Potter, that’s an ancient magical artifact. Now, stop touching it and come away like a good chap. We need to finish collecting up those damned albino lichens you dragged me in here for and hie our arses straight out after. Clearly it’s not safe. Did you see the falling rock, just now? Have you noted the tremors in the walls? They’re cracking. Those dead white vines, the Inferi ones, which are wanting to eat us? Not the safest environment, Potter.”

“But _I_ want—“

What Potter wanted Draco would never know because—BOOM! And then **BOOM** , again!

Vines! Zombie vines, and more of them! Bloody vines everywhere, creeping up fast! Pale as bared bone and tinged with a ghastly hint of green, they were. Growing and slithering and whipping right along to the end of the stone altar they stood upon, and then wrapping themselves securely about two pairs of booted ankles!

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Draco exclaimed, abruptly jigging about to avoid complete entanglement. He dove forward, grabbing at Potter’s shoulders, and hauled him back and away from the terrifying disc unit. “Fuck, Potter! What did I tell you? You’ve gone and set the magic off, haven’t you? Let’s scram while we can still! Get ourselves out of this Merlin-forsaken hole in the ground before we’re eaten alive!”

“No—wait! The words! Do you see them? What’s that say there, Malfoy? What are those symbols?” Potter resisted reason, as he always did, and strained forward just as eagerly as Draco was urging him back, kicking off slithering white tendrils as he lunged. “What _are_ they? They’re burning—burning! _See_ them?”

“Sure I see them,” Draco snarled into Potter’s ear. “Do I care? No! Now, move your arse before we both die here, Potter!”

“I need know what the writing says, Malfoy!” Potter persisted, shouting over the renewed rumbling of rock and the eerie crackle of peculiar plants growing unnaturally fast. He dug his heels in, the plants helping him stand fast. “That’s why I even came along with you, remember? That and the lichen you promised me. I’m not budging an inch till I know.”

“For fuck’s sake, Potter!” Draco stared, struck still. “Are you raving?”

“No.”

With a little jerk and nasty hiss the vines all at once stopped abruptly in their mad attempts to bind them both. The frightening subsonic sound of massively hewn masonry shifting all about them ceased as well.

“No, I’m not. I’m researching, git. Now help me out, will you?”

It was an eerie but very welcome silence; Draco shivered anyway. He knew all about _eerie_ , too.

“Potter,” he growled, attempting to inject a note of dire warning into his tone. “Potter.”

“No! No, I’m not gone mental. They’re absolutely without a single doubt very old runes, Malfoy,” Potter insisted, far too loudly in the hush. “From a very old civilization, too. We owe it to ourselves and science to know what they’ve written here. And it’s quieted down some, see? Come on, do your stuff, will you? Read them off to me.”

“Runes, are they? Really.” Draco leant forward to peer at the disc, intrigued at last, a hand still fast upon Potter’s shoulder. “Well...since we’re here anyway, Potter, I suppose I could...ahem. Hmm.”

This was his area, his expertise, and the primary reason Potter had begged him ever so prettily to accompany him on this wild excursion. Well...to be truthful, they’d both moronically begged each other to idiotically hightail it into the jungle for the sake of science; it had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time. Now, not so much.

“Let’s see….ah? A...hah. Is that what I think it is? Oh—oh!”

Draco’s pupils practically exploded as they finally accepted what was blazoned all across the surface of the disc in flaming block print. ‘Fuck’, it said, or symbols to that effect. ‘Or Die’, it also read, similarly simply stated.

“Oh, no…oh, please, Salazar…why me? Oh, why _me_?” He slapped his free hand across his unhappy eyeballs, in a vain effort to un-see. “Of all the foul luck in the world, Potter...”

“What, what, Malfoy?” Potter jerked, turning to about to stare up, his eyes now and again flickering back to the esoteric scribbles continually scrolling over the centre of the oily brilliance. “They are what I thought they were, aren’t they? Well? What do they mean? Tell me, damn it! Then we’ll go, I promise. Solemnly, Malfoy, cross my heart.”

“Potter…” Draco replied slowly, unhanding his aching head and opening his burning eyes with a sigh. “The things I do for you...”

The fiery lines and circles arising brilliant from the depths of—fuck, but Potter was correct again, damn him. What was indubitably a set of powerful primitive ideographs indicating the viewer’s unhappy choice of sex or certain death hadn’t mysteriously vanished, not a bit of it, no matter how much Draco wished they had.

“Potter, Potter, Potter, it says…what it says. It’s...it’s terrible. Awfully bad. Ever so not good. I—I don’t even want to tell you, Potter, how awfully, horridly, exquisitely dire this is.”

“Says _what_ , Malfoy? _What_ does it say? How many times do I have to ask you?”

“Oh fuck…yes, no, very bad. Oh, er? Hang on!” Draco peered at the surface more closely, seeing the two of them reflected there, he and Potter, but far more clearly than before. “There’s more! There’s something else here; I’m just now seeing it now...ah.” Oh, there were he and Potter, staring open-mouthed, for all the world like guppies—and then behind that image, two more of the exact same two Wizards were to be glimpsed as well—but different again. “Oh?”

“You know?” Draco heard Potter jostling impatiently by his elbow. He remarked conversationally, “You do realize, if you don’t translate them for me soon, I’m going to deck you, Malfoy. And stop staring into it, would you? You say I’m the impossible one here, but really...hah!”

“Ah? Mmm...gah?”

Draco was distracted. Logically, he knew for fact he and Potter were both clad in what the Wizarding world deemed to be suitable garb for jungle-going explorers: cargo-style twill trousers and multi-pocketed cotton shirts, all in drab beige, topped with pith helmets, and then with various and sundry accoutrements stuck in one’s belt loops. They were equipped with bundles of rope, bullwhips and Muggle pistols and pickaxes, magnifying lenses and miscellaneous Muggle dental instruments; all de rigueur for the common-garden sort of tropical adventurer. Yes, they were certainly suitably attired—except, in the Mirror? They weren’t!

“Oh?” he gasped. “Merlin’s left bollock! No—his _third_ bollock!”

Attired, that was. At all!

“Malfoy. Malfoy, what is it?”

“…Oh, horrid…” Draco mumbled. “Oh, my eyes, my poor eyes!”

“Malfoy.”

He knew—Draco’s own fingers didn’t lie, creeping as they were nervously down his sweat-stained button plaque— that in the real world, the one outside the disc, that is to say, he and Potter really were clothed, fully, appropriately, completely, the pair of them—but the image reflected before his dazzled eyes was none of that. Nor were they upright. In fact, their reflected selves were scrambling about quite wildly on the stone platform, starkers, down on hands and knees. Unmindful of probable bruising, too, as well as spare quiescent plant matter and little drifts of falling rock dust, and apparently having themselves a truly amazing primal fuck.

“Scandalous!” Draco muttered, shocked to the utter core and yet still admiring the gallant athleticism of two fit young Wizards in action. The real Potter elbowed him in the ribs, hard. Draco ignored him completely; didn’t even notice.

“ **Malfoy**!”

None. Not a whit, not an ounce, not a Galleon—of decorum, or of scientific method, or even of just plain old common sense; that was what Draco _didn’t_ see reflected. No…it was rather much less mundane and great deal more inconveniently lust-inspiring, the images. It was all skin, skin, skin glistening with sweat and then fully hardened dicks slicked up and inviting little pink arse holes centred between two brilliantly formed buttocks. And it was compelling, completely, the vision. Draco’s twill trousers, for example? Already strained to bursting with instant reaction.

“…and that’s just too buggering sexy and sinful as all **fuck** besides…” he gasped quietly, more to himself than to Potter. “My poor eyeballs. They’re steaming.”

“Eh? _What_ , Malfoy? What, what, what? I keep asking you, but you’re not talking!”

“N-Nothing!” Draco gulped. “Oh no, really, it’s nothing. Just some old—really amazing—er, well, never mind that, Potter! Come along, we really must go now.”

He turned to go, but hesitated, finding himself quite unable to take his eyes off the vision. It was he and Potter, oh certainly, no mistaking that. But it was also he and Potter spread sprawled in the surface of the massive stone flat beneath their boot heels, and they were naked as hot damn, buck nude and perspiring freely, and they were—

They were fucking.

“That’s not a ‘nothing’, Malfoy,” his companion snapped back, unaware the word was ringing through Draco’s dazed brain like the tolling of a great gong. “Come on, don’t fob me off. I _know_ you.”

Potter rammed his sturdy boot heels into the rubble and coiled vines and glared at Draco’s gawping.

Oh, yes, indubitably. In the mirror, naked Potter was madly fucking, shagging, doing the down-and-dirty—getting it _on_ , in the parlance, and naked Draco was _on_ naked Potter like hobbyhorse flies on Thestral shit. Potter’s lean hips were rising up under Draco’s steely fast grip and Draco? He was positioned perfectly behind that luscious arse of Potter’s, his own bum cheeks clenched with happy tension and his dick stuck straight out and out and also in, like an arrow, breaching Potter’s hole repeatedly, and he was thrusting, _and_ thrusting. And that Potter in the disc was groaning and moaning, writhing all about, his face flushed red, and that Draco was panting hard, and they both looked to be having a marvellous time, copulating away like mad jarvies, and it was all very heart-palpitatingly nerve-wracking, was what!

“Ngh!” Draco eventually responded, with some difficulty. “Ghngh?”

“Malfoy!” Potter prodded him, poking Draco square in the breastbone with a furious finger. “Enough stalling. Malfoy, what _is_ it? What do you see? What else is there to see? What’s the rune say?”

“It says…Potter, it says,” Draco croaked, in pathetically fade-away accents. “It _says_ ‘Fuck or Die,’ Potter. That’s what it says, if you must know. ‘Fuck...or Die’.”

“What? ‘Fuck or—’? **Ack**!”

“Yes. Or— **die**! Oh, Merlin! Shit, here we go! Whoops! Mind, Potter!”

Damned vines; they were just as mental as Potter, with unruly minds of their own, it seemed. Their apparent current purpose? To cursorily remove every scrap of hiking gear in evidence, and fling them both down with far too little care (‘Ouch! Bugger you!’ Draco snarled, when his kneecaps slammed into the platform flags) upon the altar they stood upon. And then—bloody bastardy insidious non-green greenery—apparently the next great thing to do was tie them there, in a very compromising position, to various unobtrusive anchoring stones barely hidden amidst the settling scree.

“Oh my…” Potter breathed, coughing on risen dust as he discovered himself abruptly on hands-and-knees with his nude arse in the air, and securely kept in place by a very vivacious snarl of semi-sapient plant matter. “This can’t be good, Malfoy.”

The vines had also, and not incidentally, wrapped themselves securely about both Wizard’s necks, rather like living choke collars.

“Did I not just tell you that? Didn’t I?”

Draco huffed, struggling manfully against the ones that were attempting to corset him, the same as which had forced him down to kneeling position also and ripped off all his suitable attire, leaving bare as a newborn. Revealed were his quite naked legs, ta, his completely stripped back, belly and thighs. His naked cock, too, which was completely—inappropriately!—hard as blue blazes and which was currently poking insistently at Potter’s equally available anus, and fuck! But didn’t that nearly set off an incipient attack of the screaming willies? Seemed like ‘Fuck’ was definitely on the menu...and also possibly also ‘Die’.

“ _Why_ …is…it you never— **ever** —listen to me, Potter? Till—it’s too—fucking— **lateYES**!” Draco, all his patience exhausted, could do nothing to prevent the cradle of curling living ropes now girdling his hips and pelvis from shoving his resisting torso forward. “And—and g-guess what, Potter?”

“What?” Potter echoed faintly, watching bemused as yet more slinky photosynthesizing tendrils tied his wrists down to the platform and wrenched his straining thighs as wide open as they could go. “What, Malfoy? There’s more to this?”

“It means it!”

“Oh, Merlin,” Potter moaned, caught fast and obviously not liking it. “Too tight! Smarts, Malfoy!”

Yes, yes, it’s all fun and games till a person finds himself at the point of shagging another person without benefit of lubrication or proper preparation.

“It’s not kidding, Potter!”

Not. Kidding.

“It means it, Potter! Oh, bloody fuck, _fuck_.”

“Means it?” Potter mumbled, his hair covered in a snood of tiny milk-white tendrils and his face half-smashed onto the unforgiving stone pillow Draco had noticed earlier. “You mean—are you saying, Malfoy, you’re really going to shag m-me? M- **Malfoy**? Here? Now?”

“Blast!” Draco gritted, resisting the ancient spell upon them with all his might. “Bugger!”

He reminded himself he was a gentleman, no matter what the situation.

“No! I’m not going to merely shag you, I’m going to tear you to pieces, Potter, if it keeps up the ways its going. Hold on, I’m going to try something!”

“Oh, fuck,” Potter moaned, and tried his best to wriggle his bum forward and away from Draco’s oncoming prick. “Okay, do that. Yes, please do that. Do something! Anything, even if it’s wrong.”

But no go; the greenery was vilely persistent. Draco shuddered, his stubborn resistance nearly spent.

“Argh—ah! No! No, no, Malfoy! Stop the invocation. Make—it—stop!”

“I can’t do that. Didn’t I say?” Draco moaned, every muscle stretched to capacity, dick forging forward despite him. “But I can at least do this, so shut it, Potter—and keep still! Penetratus Preperandum!”

Draco yelped as the vines gave his gyrating pelvis one final significant shove, leaving the tip of his cock not even a scant millimeter off that tiny little innocent pink sphincter and poking at it—poking hard. He watched, absurdly fascinated, as it winked at him, the tiny round hole, all wrinkly and fluttering wide despite Potter’s nervous shivers shaking the whole of his body. Draco’s wand might’ve vanished along with his pith helmet but there was one wandless spell he knew regardless; thank Merlin it was this one.

“Penetratus _preperandum_ , for fucks’ sake!”

“Ooooh, _I’ll_ say! Fuck’s _sake_ , Malfoy!” Potter squeaked, and then arched his spine as the liquid magic wash of the incantation hit him square on the bum. “Oooooh!” he crooned, when it did, blossoming oily all over his spread buttocks, dripping down his quivering thighs. “Ah! A-haaaaa! Thasss’ goooood, M-Malfoy. Verra, verra good....oh, yeah.”

“Oh, thank good— _NESS_!” Draco’s eyes popped, and then rolled back in his head. Potter was one tight little Wizard. “Just—in—time!”

 _FUCK_ , blazed the runic writing on the disc’s shiny bright surface, absolutely adamant. FUCK, FUCK, **FUCK**.

Potter may’ve answered him but Draco had absolutely no idea if that was true or just his wildly ranging mind making up silly noises to spite him. As he was quite busy, what with not losing his faculties completely as his cock slid straight into that incredibly hot, incredibly moistened Pottery orifice. And then he was occupied further, mainly by not swallowing his own tongue when Potter grunted gutturally and unexpectedly budged his beauteous bum backwards, to take the remainder of Draco’s empurpled rampant inches completely in, balls deep. Potter then moaned like a two-bit whore when Draco’s bristly white-blond pubes brushed up against his sensitive cheeks, and ground his boney little pelvis against Draco’s straining thighs with disgraceful abandon.

Disgracefully...blissful, really. Definitely better than dying.

“Hah! Hoo- **hah**!” Potter exclaimed. That Draco did catch. And also the little ‘whoop!’ which followed. _Blast_ Potter!

Draco swallowed down a biting rejoinder about ‘certain people’s’ behaviour, and concentrated instead on working his hips with all his might, snapping them sharply back and forth as he plunged. The cavern seemed to spin about him and, as he was gone dizzy as all fuck anyway, Draco did what came naturally, just as the disc’s inscription had foretold: he shagged faster yet, grasping at Potter’s firm, trim waist for balance and holding on for dear life, pumping his prick within Potter’s perfect arse like a certifiable loony.

“Oh god, oh fuck, oh Christ, oh—oh!” Potter may have also remarked. “Arrghunah!”

A modern-day loony. Or possibly an unwillingly magick’d practitioner of a really mouldy old fertility ritual.

“Potter! So! Sooooo—oh, good, oh brilliant—oh, FUCK!” Draco had to say this aloud eventually, or at least he thought he did; the minutes were flying by fast as shattered seconds and he’d no idea if there was enough air left in his heaving lungs to make speech. Likely it was all garble, like Potter’s.

He also got round to blindly shoving a remarkably vine-free hand down front and centre of Potter’s chest and rippling belly, grasping at the bobbing willy he found there, as a gesture of grand good will for his fellow Wizard—and his fellow Wizard’s lascivious largesse. He gripped the slick shaft carefully as he could and stroked it, best as he was able given his mind was bubbling over with bloody Methuselah’s Age Magic, making use of the hot liquid leaking out of the bulbous tip to ease the process. Really—if Draco was having such a good time, it was only fair Potter should, too.

Potter sagged the moment he was taken in hand, gone terribly pliant as he was rocked forward and back, spitted upon Draco’s dick as he was and at its mercy. Which wasn’t much ‘mercy’, as Draco could ill afford mercy at the moment, given the spectre of ‘Or Die’. Undeterred, Potter panted and writhed and showed all signs of being very grateful for the impromptu shagging.

And then Potter ceased breathing altogether for what seemed like ages, which worried Draco considerably, but in a very distant sort of way. ‘Fuck or Die,’ the rune had read. Not ‘Fuck _and_ Die’. That would hardly be to the point of an antique fertility rite, would it? However, many centuries had clearly passed since the elderly magic of this funky jungle’s sacred spells had been activated, right?

Right! And the disc wasn’t exactly in peak polished condition, either. Perhaps something had mucked it up?

“P-Potter? Potter, speak to me!” Draco burst out, nearly at wit’s end; this was part and parcel of Potter’s general lunacy. Only _he_ would suffer a heart attack whilst shagging; how galling. “Don’t you dare expire on me now, Potter. I’ll have your bollocks for bookends if you do, Potter! I got you out of Costa Rica in one piece, didn’t I? _Potter_? Don’t. You. Dare. Die!”

“Fuck...oh, fuck. Fuck!”

But Potter hadn’t passed on; not at all. He took in a huge ragged breath, so deep his ribs nearly inflated twice their size, and gathered himself together quite visibly, tightening up his tendons and all his wiry muscles. Indeed, his entire stance all along the length of every limb and even unto that mighty fine arse of his went rigid and taut and then—and then? He begged for it, the shagging. And squeezed Draco’s prick like a bloody champion. From the _inside_ , bless him.

“Fuck me,” the man whimpered, needy as anything. “Fuck me? Malfoy? Wanna come now. Come, come—come!”

Draco’s eyes rolled in his head; he almost toppled over backwards. A bit sublime, those words, issuing from improbable Potter. More than made up for all the indignities of Costa Rico.

“Fuck me, oh, fuck me, oh, please, please, pretty please, Malfoy—shag me, shag me rotten,” Potter began chanting, and? Did. Not. Stop. Chattering! Squeezing! Begging! Pleading!

“Take me,” he gasped. “Have me,” he whined, and? The real kicker was? Draco’s Waterloo? “I fucking want you to shag me sooo bad, Draco! I want...you. You, you, you.”

Draco’s jaw hit his bared collarbone with an audible smacking sound, so hard it might mean a bruise later; he didn’t care. For the vines hissing about them had all eased off, clearly content. The Mirror glinted one final feral gleam, the fiery Rune of Fucking Doom dying away to a mere burnt red ember, and the cavern walls rumbled softly just the once more, long and slow, and it might have been similar to a sort of stony purring. If ancient fertility deities could purr, that was. And if Draco weren’t completely off his head, which he clearly and passionately was, cheers. As was Potter. With lust. Damn, but these really elderly artefacts were fucking _potent_!

“Me, too!” he blurted out desperately, not caring a hoot as he was going to die anyway. “Oh...me, too.”

Just a different sort of ‘death’, a much nicer sort—and nowhere near as final and grim as the other.

“Oh, god, oh Merlin, oh so, so much, so much, Potter—ahhh! Hah! Here she comes, look out below!”

“Fire in the hole!” Draco thought he heard Potter scream from beneath him, but he couldn’t be certain as his prick was exploding, jetting out in great gouts of brilliantly hot slobber and coating the insides of Potter’s gorgeously flinching arsehole to kingdom come.

“—oh, **AHHHHHH**!”

 

**Three Months Later, Safe Back at the Laboratory:**

“Potter,” Draco barked peremptorily, flipping a beckoning hand. “Potter, I think it’s safe to say we have a problem. A minor problem; I am sure we shall overcome.”

“A problem?” Potter echoed, stripping off his goggles and gloves and approaching warily. “What sort of problem?”

“Well,” Draco shot back, feeling quite short of temper; it had been a long day, tallying up figures. “Let me lay it for you, shall I? Besides the unfortunate body markings we both sport to this day since our little intimate ‘experience’ in that ruddy temple, and despite the fact I truly do hate to tell you this, kid you not, thing is you’re pregnant, Potter. In the family way. Three months gone, by these readings, I’d say. No, definitely. Three months, on the dot.”

“…What, now? Say again, Malfoy?”

“You, Potter.” Draco stepped up and gingerly took firm hold of Potter’s upper arms, staring down at him with the most seriously stern—and terribly caring—expression he could manage, what with still wearing his own safety goggles. “You are pregnant. Up the duff. Knocked up. In the pudding club. By way of me, yours truly. Potter, to put it simply, you’re having my baby. You’re meant to be a mummy, in the quite near future. ”

He blinked back at Potter’s wide blank green gaze through the double lenses protecting his own vision, well aware that the last part of his speech didn’t quite sit properly, especially as judging by Potter’s ever more stunned eyeballs. Bewildered, quite; rolling about like ninepins and very nice to stare into, especially when not as spinny as they were currently. Draco did so, sometimes, that sort of staring, when they were bickering their heads off over theory versus practical field applications. And sometimes also when they were, too. But no matter—that wasn’t to the point at the moment, what he and Potter got up to at lab, after hours.

“Oh, right, no. A papa. You are to be a papa, Potter. Or...a daddy, rather,” he clarified, for the sake of both their teetering sanities. “Yes, Daddy; that will do. I guess properly it would also extrapolate out to you’re to be ‘the’ father, Potter, as well as ‘the’ mummy.” Draco cocked his chin, considering. “But then so am I, so that term might lead to some confusion, I daresay. Or will, in the end. Down the road, of course. Oh? And congratulations, Potter, old man. Good on you. It’s not everyone who comes through a three thousand year old fertility rite sporting such amazing good health.”

“Ptah!” Potter’s lovely lips parted, ever so sweetly. His lashes fluttered down like dark shrouds descending. His head lolled on its stem. “He-he-hell-thhpah? Mmmh- **Mah**?”

“Potter? Potter!”

And then Potter passed out, not so sweetly, sagging insensible like a small untidy sack of grain in Draco’s arms, drooling a bit all over Draco’s coat lapels, and nearly dragging them both down to sticky, filthy floor with all his dead weight. No. His quite alive and slightly increased weight, actually: the baby had added some pounds to those lean hips of his recently.

“Oh, shit!” Draco muttered darkly, examining his fellow Wizard with a leery eye as he laid him out flat on the tiles despite their manky condition, dutifully ensuring Potter’s airway was unencumbered. “I just knew this wouldn’t go over well. Potter—I say, **Potter**! Wake the fuck up already, will you? We’ve a report to prepare yet. Publish or perish, remember? And only six months left to do it all in, bugger all. Chop-chop, Potter! Up!”

 

**Two Months After That, In Residence At Malfoy Manor:**

“You know, it could be worse, Potter,” Draco remarked kindly, pouring out Potter’s tea. “It could be me.”

“Yes!”

Potter bounced up, as much as he was able, as he was twice his previous size, and a lot less wiry and underfed-looking. He paced the carpet furiously, only waddling a little.

“Yes, it could well be, damn it! And why wasn’t it, I ask you? At least _you_ know about these things—I bloody well don’t, blast it! Hadn’t a fucking clue, did I? All I wanted was those lichens—and than that damned rune translated. And now look where we’ve landed, you and I! Fucking bloody Stone Age Wizards and their bloody fucking fertility gods! Why ever did we ever even venture into that bloody cave, Malfoy? What were we even thinking?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you were thinking, Potter,” Draco replied peaceably, adding several biscuits to Potter’s saucer. “You fuzzy-minded freak of nature. Of lichens, maybe.”

Muggle chocolate ones, as Potter kept craving them. He eyed the saucer for a moment and then judiciously slipped on two more. Potter, fat as he was courtesy baby Malfoy, was still too thin for Draco’s taste, really.

“Yes, that’s it. Lichens all the bloody way, as ever. But I was thinking _I’d_ like to complete my monograph on the history of South American Neolithic cultures and their various magical artifacts, finally. Which I have so done, thank you for asking. Just this morning. You, dear?”

“Fuck your fucking monograph, Malfoy!” Potter growled as he marched forward and snatched up his cup-and saucer. “And fuck you! I’ve got nothing! Nothing!”

He retreated back to the well padded armchair Draco had procured for him and planted his spreading arse in it with a distinct huff, smouldering.

“Hmph! I just wish _I_ could get some work done, damn you. Or even sleep at night. Concentrate! That would be pretty fair, to my mind! But no! Hormones from Hades, that’s me in a nutshell.”

“Well, fancy that, Potter.” Draco sneered gently. “You’re exhausted. You find yourself flat out and limp-wristed and sallow-skinned and all that, and you don’t think to consider why? Did it ever strike you, Potter, that perhaps your body has a more pressing need of your attention, this particular moment? That perhaps you should cease going at your usual insanely high velocity? Has it? Because I rather think that’s exactly what Healer told you to do, just this morning. And I should know, as I was there.”

“Sod. Off,” Potter sulked, nearly dipping his chin in his cup. He glared at it sullenly through a hideous amount of midnight eyelashes. “S’peculiar, this. You know I always wanted a family, Malfoy—all my life, I did. But this? This is nutters. This is the oddest, strangest, most utterly mental way to have one I’ve ever encountered. I cannot even begin to grasp it, not even. And how am I ever to finish my own damned monograph, if that’s how it is for me?”

“Hmph!” Draco snorted. “Well, don’t blame _me_ for it, Potter. I wasn’t the one all over that damned artifact, was I? I wasn’t the one who galloped straight into a den of active antiquated fertility spells and bloody well invoked them, was I? _I’m_ not the one to blame for this, Potter, and you bloody well know it. It’s your own sodding fault. I just have to deal with the conseq—oh, fuck **me** for a lark! Potter? _Potter_!”

It was the tiniest of sniffles, just the smallest of sounds, but Draco heard it. Of course he probably would have heard it the next town over, possibly even as far as actual Town, given how much he was attuned to Potter lately. Still and all, he was out of his own armchair in a flash and across the space between them also in a flash, his own tea abandoned.

“Potter, Potter, please don’t do that,” he begged softly, tilting Potter’s stubborn chin up so he could get a decent look at those damp pools of green. “Don’t— _don’t_ make those little whuffly noises at me, either; they pain my chest something awful, all right? Stop it now. Lean on me for a bit. Come here. Here!”

He deftly removed Potter’s cup and gathered him up with both arms. Potter snivelled a bit more despite it, which was not a happy thing.

“There, there,” Draco murmured, petting Potter for all he was worth. “Now, now.”

“…Malfoy?”

“Hmm?”

The tiny voice was hoarse and reedy enough to have Draco instantly shifting Potter about—carefully, mind!—in a blink; have him situating his own arse on Potter’s chair and then dragging Potter promptly straight across his own two legs and well into the comfy-cosy lap he made for him, all in a matter of two ticks. They settled there, and for a blessed moment there was lovely quiet. As in no horrible whuffling noises and no further whimpering on Potter’s part.

Much too quiet, actually.

“What now, Potter?” Draco coaxed, his face tickled all over by wildly springing hair tendrils as Potter burrowed closer. Worse than the damn vines had been, these dark curls, but far better smelling. “Talk to me.”

“Meh-Malfoy….Malfoy, are you certain?” Potter kept his face stubbornly pressed against Draco’s chest. “About this? The baby?”

“Absolutely,” Draco replied instantly, scowling at Potter’s unseen face but in the nicest possible way. “It may have been unexpected but it’s certainly not unwelcome. _Potter_. I’ve thought so all along—and said so. You know that.”

“Okay, then.” Potter whooshed out a great heaving sigh and went lax, his smaller person draping itselfall over Draco’s tense one. “All right. All…right.”

“Precisely so.” Draco pressed his chin firmly into where Potter should have a part in his hair but never actually did. “Calm yourself, will you? It will be perfect. Brilliant as fuck. You’ll see.”

Potter made another odd indeterminate noise, but it wasn’t so nearly upsetting to Draco’s innards, this one. Then there was another lovely shared spot of quiet between them, Potter nestled into Draco’s arms, as best as he could. Draco helped him, naturally. By hugging him; blissful.

“….Malfoy?”

“Hmmm?”

“And…you’re saying…you _did_ say, I heard you! It _is_ true you don’t mind the tattoos, either? Because I think they’re rather… rather daring, actually. All silvery, the imprint those weird vines left; suits you. Your colouring. Quite attract—“

“The tattoos!” Draco sat bolt upright, nearly off-loading Potter, who clung frantically. “These bloody tattoos, Potter! Now _those_ I didn’t ask for, cheers, and no! I _don’t_ bloody well like them, not one bit! I’m a Malfoy, may I remind you? Excuse me if I don’t want my skin marred any worse than it already is!”

“Oh! Now, now.Here, here.” Potter soothed Draco in turn, using his recent weight gain to press a glowering Draco back against the squabs. “There, there. At least we match, this time. It could be worse.”

“Hmmph!” Draco snorted. “Bloody loon. Matching! Are you a girl?”

“Malfoooooy.”

“Yes, well. Abandon that topic now, Potter. Matching tatoos! Nonsense.”

“Not non—“

“Nonsense, _yes_! Silly goose, you are; go on over the strangest things. And you’re crushing my thighs, you see, and here I am, trying to will my blood to circulate properly before my legs fall off. Don’t distract me.”

“Hmmph. Sorry.”

He hugged Potter a little harder despite it, the distraction, for Draco really didn’t mind the strange silver-hued markings the odd vines had left behind on both their hides. There were worse things, after all. Death, for one. And they did indeed match up, he and Potter, and that was...decent. If one cared for that sort of thing.

“…Okay.” Potter snuffled against his shoulder, finally content. “All right.”

“Okay.”

 

**Several Additional Months Later, Inside the Unknowable Depths of St Mungo’s Maternity/Paternity Ward:**

“ **ARRRRGGGGHHH**! Get. It. OUT.”

Potter insisted on screaming. It was…well, it was bothersome in the extreme. Draco promptly buttonholed the Attending.

“If you don’t fix him right now,” he gritted nastily, making full use of the Malfoy eyebrows-and- haughty frown combination, “I shall strip you of your license, tar and feather your every limb, rend your body to the four winds, eat your gizzard for my tea, and then run what’s left of your pathetic self straight out of town on a post-rail rammed up your loser’s arse. Do. **IT**. Do it now. Get that baby out of Potter. This instant!”

“Yessir!” The Healer went paler than pale. “Right away sir!”

“Hmph!” Draco snorted. “I should think so.”

 

**Five Years On, At Malfoy Manor:**

“Seriously, Malfoy? There again? It’s hot, and humid, and there’s insects—”

“He needs a brother. Or a sister,” Draco interrupted Potter placidly. “You agreed, Potter. And I’m not changing it up, either. We go in April.”

“I’m just saying, this is hardly going to be a vacation, that’s all. Not for _me_.”

“And _I’m_ just saying—“

Draco sashayed quite deliberately up to his partner and laid a pair of very possessive hands upon him. As well as a snog, one the of the most potent ones he had in his wide repertoire.

“You’re not the only one who can carry a baby, Potter. All right?”

Big green eyes; Draco still liked to stare into them. He liked to gaze into both sets of them, actually, but their son was growing up awfully quickly and Hogwarts was looming large in the near future. Six years would be sure to pass far too soon; certainly the last five had. And the Manor would be horribly, terribly quiet with just the few of them—him, his Potter, his Mum—rattling round in the vast interior once their Precious was off to school.

Besides, functioning fertility spells, with built-in temple-bed mirrors, reflecting? _Fuck or Die_ , even? Sexy! Like SEXY, all capitalized! Just the thing to put the whiz-popper straight back into a steady relationship.

“Okay?” he prompted. “Potter?”

Not that he and Potter required a whiz-popper; oh, no! Still, it paid to be a romantic sod, sometimes. Draco knew Potter appreciated it.

“…Okay.”

Really, he _did_.

“So.” Draco grinned, triumphant. “Exactly so.”

“Oh, shut it,” Potter grumbled, but all clingy ‘round Draco’s waist nonetheless. “When do we leave, again—April? Brilliant. Just in time for the monster mosquitoes, then. And where’d you pack my old pith helmet, Malfoy? I know I’m going to need it.” He shook his head irritably, which did exactly nothing to settle his hair into any sort of reasonable fashion. “Bloody dusty, that cavern is. Things falling down, more things growing up! And ick, eww, allergies to look forward to—sneezing. Grand. _Ooooh!_ ”

Potter’s eyes lit up; Draco felt his own smile slipping away.

“Lichen! _Lichen_ , Malfoy. Albino!”

Draco sighed. The things he did for Potter? Oh, they were many, so very many.

“Oh, your helmet? That old thing?” he sniffed. “It’s packed up in the attics, Potter, right where mine is. All our old kit’s there, and _no_ bloody lichen collecting this time ‘round, that’s my last word. You know how it makes _me_ snee—“

“Bosh.”

“Prat of prats, Potter.”

“More bosh.”

“Come here, then, and _make_ me—ah! Yes...that’s it.”

 

**Fin**


End file.
